1989
by GlaringlyObvious
Summary: A collection of one-shots based on Taylor Swift's 1989. Chapter Two: Victoire is sick of it all. She wants a change. And she'll move across the bloody ocean for her change.
1. How You Get The Girl

**I do not own Harry Potter.**

~oOo~

_Stand there like a ghost_

_Shaking from the rain, rain_

_She'll open up the door_

_And say, are you insane?_

_Say it's been a long six months_

_And you were too afraid to tell her what you want_

_And that's how it works_

_It's how you get the girl_

_And then you say_

_I want you for worse or for better_

_I would wait for ever and ever_

_Broke your heart, I'll put it back together_

_I would wait for ever and ever_

_(Taylor Swift)_

~oOo~

It's been a long time since you've last seen him (not in the grand scheme of things, really, but six months feels like a lot to you).

Because even though it's been only six months, it seems it was eons ago when you used to care for him so deeply. When you woke up every morning with his face imprinted into your mind the most gorgeous eyes and best hair in the entire world (or so it seemed at the time)), or better yet, with his arms around you. When once glance your way would make you so happy you could barely breathe. When he would kiss your freckles and refer to you as 'love'. How when you kissed (_really_ kissed) your head seemed to explode and everything felt as it was on fire and it somehow seemed like the whole world was just black and white but you and him? The brightest splash of color imaginable.

_Which was a really good description,_ you think.

_Six months, one week and two days ago _(you really have to stop counting the days).

You ignore your inner-urgings, _(fuck it)_ once again, and continue to think. sixonetwo. Six months, one week, and two days since you caught him, drunk, with Shelley Sommers, snogging in the corner of that damn club.

Six months, one week, and two days have been spent walking around in a miserable daze, attempting to resume life as it was before _thebreakup_ and failing miserably at doing so. Six months, one week, and two days spent dragging yourself out of bed and to work, six months, one week, and two days of counting down the hours until you can go back to bed and fall into sleep and stop thinking about him. Six months, one week, and two days of forcing yourself to eat and drink and live.

sixmonthsoneweekandtwodays of. being. utterly. fucking._ miserable. _

You can't stop thinking of him. The arrogance and the smirk that softened (he'd never admit it) when you looked at him a certain way. His (quite perfect) face nearly almost always devoid of emotion. His dimples that showed only when he really, genuinely smiled (he still denied the fact that he, Scorpius Malfoy, had bloody dimples).

_You miss him._

For the thousandth time in those sixmonthsoneweekandtwodays, you are sitting at your kitchen table, slowly sipping a mug of hot chocolate (hot chocolate is pretty much the only thing you drink these days). You are sick of trying to _not _think about him, it's like trying to fight a fucking war with yourself, and _it's bloody exhausting._ So just for now, you let yourself angst over him as much as you bloody want.

You are in the middle of reminiscing a particularly happy memory with him (you pride yourself on remembering something so happy with the utmost muster-able misery and melancholy), when _it_ happens.

_It._

_It_ was actually a very simple knock on your door. Followed by two more, sharp, prompt, orderly knocks.

_Now who the bloody fuck is banging their god damn knuckles against my god damn door? Fucking fuckers need me to fucking let me fucking angst in fucking peace_. You think, expression souring (even more).

Sighing wearily, you rise. You look like shit, to put it bluntly (messy, falling out bun, huge t-shirt with holes in it, sweatpants that sag in the butt, and shadows under your eyes so deep and dark that it looks like you are a fucking Walker like in the fucking _Walking Dead_)_._ You grab your wand just in case it's your cousin, James, looking for somewhere to crash because he's so fucking hungover he can barely function. You're sick of his interruptions, and are ready to hex that fucker's pants off.

As you stride over to the door, you notice it's raining- it's all gray and drizzly and depressing.

It always in in London.

Sighing, you abruptly yank open your door, _almost _sure it's James. "James Sirius Potter, I swear-"

It isn't James Sirius Potter.

"_What the fuck?" _You splutter.

Because the person before you is _not _your cousin.

The person standing before you is someone you haven't seen in six months, one week, and two days. He's tall, and even, well (for lack of a better word) more _gorgeous _than you remember. His body is achingly familiar to you. Tall, fit from Quidditch, pointed chin, high cheekbones, skin that no amount of sunlight can penetrate, platinum blond hair that does _holycrapthatswoopything. _His clothes are dotted with raindrops, as is his hair.

It's He-Who Must-Not-Be-Named/ He-Who-Cheated-On-You-With-Fucking-Shelley-Slag-Sommers-And-Who-You-Broke-Up-With sixmonthsoneweekandtwodays ago.

He was solid, very much real, but it didn't feel like he seemed much more like a ghost to you.

Something with a smoky quality, that you had tried to touch but had quickly dissipated right before you, leaving you confused and stunned. Something from long ago (six months, one week and two days (_shutuprose)_ to be precise).

You miss him.

Very much, actually.

Why?

Because when you love someone like that, and they leave, that's what you do _(miss them)._

Miss them so much that you don't even attempt to fill that damn black, empty space they left inside you.

_You miss him_. But you, of course, have your pride to consider (you've always been very prideful). So instead of hearing him out, you move to slam his face in the doo- uh, door in his face (preferably as dramatically as possible).

But before you can do that (asdramaticallyaspossible) that _utter and absolute _git does that disgustingly cliche thing in which he prevents you from closing the door.

You frown down at the long fingers gripping the door, and for a second, consider slamming his fingers in the door.

But that would be just cruel.

(And you you really want to know what he has to say but whatever)

So instead, you cross your hands over your chest (the lack of a bra becoming very apparent all of a sudden), lean against the door frame, and try to look as annoyed as possible.

But that doesn't work out. Because when you mumble a greeting, your voice comes out soft, shaky and very sad sounding.

Scorpius winces when he hears it.

You stare determinedly at the floor, avoiding his gaze.

An awkward, pregnant silence descends over the two of you, the tension so thick that for a minute, you entertain yourself with the notion of grabbing a knife and attempting to cut it..

(Finally) He speaks up. "I fucking___hate _apologizing. Alright? But you know that. _Fuck_ I'm rambling. Fuck. Okay. Right. Fuck. Anyway, the fucking point _is, _is that I'm fucking sorry, alright? I fucked up. Really, really, bad. I was drunk and wasn't thinking and I don't know WHY I did it. 'Cause I actually, like, _fuck this is almost physically hurting me to admit this, _but, I, like, actually, _loved_ you? But yeah I told you that… . I screwed _us _up and I miss you and I miss _us_ and I want _us_ back. And I just now finally worked up the shit to tell you all this? It's been a really, really, long six months and I'm sorry I broke your heart, and I _can't fucking get over you_, and please, _please, _take me back, I'll do anything. I'll wait and wait and wait and… yeah, that was a lot of 'fucks'.", he finished awkwardly.

You stand there, blinking stupidly. It takes you a long time to process what he just said. You stand there and blink and internally weed through everything he says and you finally, finally realize _exactly _what he wants.

He wants you back.

"You know," You start, voice cracking _(fuck)_, "That loquacious soliloquy right there? Completely cliche. Disgustingly cliche. Not to mention unnecessary."

His face flashes with several emotions (angerhurtembarassmentpain). But before he walks off, you finish your statement. "...because I really, really missed you too, and spent six months, one week and two days being all depressed, and would've taken you back _without_ the speech."

~oOo~

Precisely six hours, one minute and two seconds later, after lots of kissing, hugs, laughter, snide remarks, and long-winded explanations, the two of you are laying on your couch. Your head is on his chest, and his arm is flung around your shoulder.

"Rose?", He begins, "You mentioned something about six months, one week and two sday earlier? _Did you actually fucking keep track of how long we were separated."_

"Shut the fuck up, Malfoy.

**FIN.**


	2. Welcome To New York

**A/N: I don't own Harry Potter. Review, please!**

~oOo~

New York City.

It was loud. And bright.

And like nothing Victoire Weasley had ever experienced in her 25 years of life.

She stood in the middle of Times Square, wrapped in her coat, balancing on the tips of the heels of her tall, high heeled boots. Muggles swarmed around her, shouting and laughing and swearing and looking annoyed and shoving each other out of their way's. A fat, bald man with a pug-like face wearing some sort of sports jersey leered at her as he shoved her aside.

Victoire, too enchanted by her surroundings, ignored him.

When Victoire came home one day from her shitty job at that shitty restaurant with the shitty name and shitty pay and announced that she wanted to move to New York City, her relatives had been baffled. They thought it was temporary, that Victoire would be over it by next week.

She wasn't.

The truth was, Victoire was sick of it all. Her family, what was expected of her, everyone fawning over her because of her heritage, her shitty job and shitty life and pretty much everything in general.

But most of all, she couldn't stand being in the same places that she'd played with Teddy in as a little girl and kissed him in as a teenager and was sick of seeing him everyday with that bloody girlfriend of his.

She was done with the scars and past she carried with her every damn day.

She wanted something new.

And here she was now, standing in bloody Times Square, after much signing of papers and money and arguments with relatives and overall effort.

And how was New York?

The lights were so bright they were blinding. It was filled with tourists. The inhabitants of the famous city were rude and impatient. The roads were filled with honking drivers sitting in traffic. There were lots of homeless people. It smelled like a million different people's scents mingled together mixed with the smell of petrol and grease and garbage and food.

Victoire absolutely loved it.


End file.
